


watching you all night

by unconscious



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4476374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unconscious/pseuds/unconscious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It's been seven years since Zayn left. At midnight it’ll be Zayn’s birthday. Niall is already agonizing over whether to send a text or not.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	watching you all night

**Author's Note:**

> a quick oneshot written on tumblr and posted here for posterity

It’s been seven years since Zayn left. The band dragged along for another year, releasing another album, and then went on indefinite hiatus with some vague promise to one day reunite for a tour. Niall sips the dregs of his beer and props his elbows on the bar, trying to make himself a little smaller in his stool. He’s in some small underground bar with the stragglers of the London Irish Crew, but it’s too dark and loud and crowded and sweaty and he sort of just wants to go home. It’s cold outside. January 11th. At midnight it’ll be Zayn’s birthday. Niall is already agonizing over whether to send a text or not. And if so, in their very quiet group chat or not? Tonight or tomorrow morning?

He hasn’t spoken to Zayn, really, since he left. Just a few messages here and there – “congrats on the award!” or “happy bday” or “havin a good hols?”. Like you’re talking to an estranged ex, Harry once observed morosely.

Harry was the only one who got proper famous, after the band drifted into post-fame. Niall did just fine on radio, as he preferred. He didn’t get taller, but finally filled out a little, keeping it up in the gym and putting some muscle on his ornery legs, and he stopped bleaching his hair. Liam and Louis ran their record label with a fair amount of snogging on the side. Zayn faded into silence, writing sometimes, singing uncredited hooks on pop songs that briefly whipped their aging fans into a frenzy, dedicating most of his time to quietly mentoring street artists and getting their work in front of the right buyers. Harry was always a bit too odd and uncoordinated to reach Timberlake levels of triple-threat fame, but he’d received astonishing reviews for his moving performance as a young John Cage in a new biopic.

“Moping again, young Niall?” Eoghan crows as he drops onto the stool next to him. “Tequila! Two please.”

“Not moping,” Niall says, but he takes the shot just the same. The music is too loud and bass-heavy to not take a shot.

“Paying for drinks sucks,” Eoghan says as he shakes off the tequila grimace. “You should get the band back together. We got so much free shit.”

“That’s a great point,” Niall says, raising his near-empty beer glass. “I’ll text the lads now. I can hear Harry how– ‘Eoghan needs booze? To the tour buses!’”

“Never got why you needed more than one bus to begin with,” Eoghan says thoughtfully. “Come on then, Laura wants to dance.”

“Just a mo.” Niall sets his beer down. “Gonna grab another.”

“Bring a round, then!” Eoghan jumps off the stool and elbows his way back onto the pulsating dance floor.

Niall checks his watch. He squints at the face but can’t read it, so he digs through his pockets and pulls out his phone.

It’s 11:32pm. He also has a text. There it is, right on the lockscreen: Zayn Malik, New iMessage.

His heart stops, chest clenching like it did back almost a decade ago, when he was a teenager and Zayn’s presence made him tongue-tied and sweaty. It took a few months for his crush to fade, but it never really went away, he just packaged it away, and it turned into a big warm heavy secret he carried everywhere and never shared.

Niall opens the text. There it is, on a blank screen, no texting history between them.

_yeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!_

Niall blinks. He hovers his thumbs over the keyboard. What’s proper here? A question mark? The confused emoji? An emoji question mark? But it looks like as soon as his “read” receipt showed up on Zayn’s phone, Zayn started typing again. Niall sees the “typing” ellipse appears and pauses.

_the music is soooooo loud!!_

He feels like every muscle has suddenly stiffened to lead. Like his blood can’t move through his body. Like the music has cut out and One Direction has suddenly started playing, right in the middle of Zayn’s bridge, Zayn’s voice filling his tired tipsy brain.

_i wanna be yoursssssssss nowwww_

_so cmon cmon and dance with me babaaayyyyy yeeaaaahhhhh_

The messages stop. Niall stares down at his phone. How in the hell does he respond to this? Should he continue the lyrics? Send the dancing emoji? Ask Zayn if someone stole his phone?

“Hey,” someone says very close to Niall’s ear.

He looks up. Zayn is standing next to him at the bar, his cheeks flushed, clutching his iPhone, the text thread open.

Niall realizes suddenly he hasn’t seen a photo of Zayn beyond the occasional Twitter selfie in – too long, way too long. Zayn’s filled out too, that much is clear in his plain black tee and jeans; he’s leanly muscled like a football player instead of painfully skinny like the Marlboro-addicted teen he was. He’s wearing his hair longer, but it’s tamed by a black beanie. There’s a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, his eyes are a little bloodshot.

“Uh,” Zayn says, a little unsteady on his feet. “I would’ve come up and sang it, but it’s so loud, innit? Thought maybe this was, uh.” He waves his iPhone like that explains it. “Cuz it’s loud here. So. The song. You know. Our song. I’m a bit drunk.”

Niall realizes he’s been staring. “Jesus, mate,” he says around a grin, and slides off his stool to wrap his arms around Zayn’s neck, pulling him down into a hug. Zayn’s arms immediately wrap around his middle, pulling him close. It’s like getting punched in the gut. Zayn’s solid against him, and Niall’s face is tucked against his shoulder where his skin is hot and damp with sweat, and he smells like some expensive woodsy cologne and like Zayn. He feels like he’s a teenager again, shivery with it.

He pulls away, but claps his hands on Zayn’s shoulders. “Course you’re drunk. It’s your birthday.”

Zayn’s mouth drops open a little. “You remembered.”

“Like an elephant, I am,” Niall says.

“Yeah?”

“Could still sing the entirety of C’mon C’mon if I had to.”

“That doesn’t count,” Zayn says, but he’s smiling.

“Jesus, it’s good to see you,” Niall says, the words tumbling out, aided by the tequila. He feels his cheeks flushing a little.

“You too,” Zayn says softly.

Niall gets them each a beer. Zayn takes a sip of his, sways a little, and leans on the bar. They stand side-by-side, taking up valuable real estate at the bar and shoot the shit. The seven years hang between them as they catch up. They've mention what they've been doing, skirt their own projects, and quickly fall into the safe, easy discussion of what the rest of the lads are doing.

The beers disappear over the conversation, and Zayn gets the next round. He frowns at it when it arrives. “I lied,” he says. “I’m very drunk. Not a bit. Very.”

Niall laughs.

“So that’s why I’m saying this now,” he continues. “That, like, I don’t know. I’m glad I quit the band.”

Niall stops laughing. His chest clenches again, for very different reasons.

“And I missed everyone when I left, right? But like. I missed you more. Like more than the other lads. And differently. And I listen to your radio show all the time.”

“Call in sometime, mate,” Niall says, but it doesn’t come out like a joke.

“And when Perrie dumped me–”

Niall starts. Did he know about that?

“–she said something about it, and like, I think she was right? In some way. I mean I knew she was right. I still do. So I was over there, just like, dancing and stuff. Cuz it’s my birthday. And I saw you at the bar and I thought I was gonna die. I was like, this is the best birthday ever.”

“What– what are you talking about?”

“Dunno,” Zayn says, and sips his beer. He stares at the sticky surface of the bar. “Just that, like, I wouldn’t have come up to Harry or Liam like this. It’s different. We’re different.”

Niall’s angry, suddenly. “Mate, you haven’t talked to me in like, years. We barely even text.”

Zayn looks up, his brow furrowed. “You haven’t talked to me,” he corrects. “Right when I left. I tried. But you wouldn’t talk to me. So I stopped trying.”

“I was pissed! You fucked us, mate. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “But it worked out all right, didn’t it? But you didn’t text me after that. Not really.”

And that’s true, Niall supposes. He hadn’t answered Zayn’s initial texts and calls, too wrapped up in his own pain and betrayal. And as that had faded, replaced with something like loss and despair, he hadn’t reached out. He’d just waited for Zayn to try again. Because it was on Zayn, wasn’t it? But he knew Zayn too, and he knew Zayn wouldn’t try again. It was easier to just let it fade.

“Guess not,” Niall says.

“Just wanted to say that,” Zayn says, his face closing off suddenly. “That, like, I’m drunk, and it’s my birthday, and I was glad to see you. Should get back to my friends. Thanks for the beer, mate.” He stands up straight again, regains his footing, and turns to go back to his friends.

“Wait,” Niall says, grabbing Zayn’s elbow before he turns away.

“Nialler!” Eoghan crows, emerging from the dancefloor, sweaty and beaming. “Where’re the drinks? Did you drown in ‘em?” Then he sees Zayn. “I’ll be damned, is the band getting back together then? How’s it, Zayn?”

“Was just getting back to my friends,” Zayn says. “Cheers.” He pulls away from Niall and disappears onto the dance floor before Niall can stop him.

Niall smacks Eoghan on the shoulder. “Bad timing, you bastard.”

“Shoulda brought the beers before you had your post-1D heart-to-heart in the middle of this incredibly quiet and intimate bar.”

Niall doesn’t laugh. He feels like he and Zayn were on the brink of something– he could taste it in the back of his throat like blood.

“You all right, mate?” Eoghan’s brow furrows.

“Put the round on my tab,” he says. “Just gimme a sec, ok?” He starts scanning the crowd.

“Don’t do anything stupid.” Eoghan flags the bartender. “Seriously. Don’t fight him or anything.”

The bartender comes over, and Niall slips away while Eoghan is ordering way too many drinks on Niall’s dime.

The crowd is dense and sweaty and drunk and Niall gets some sticky pink drink spilled on his pants. He finds Zayn with a small group of friends standing by the wall near the DJ. Niall grabs him by the elbow again, and Zayn looks up, his face going from annoyed to shocked to relieved to stoic in a flash.

“Come on, then, come have a smoke with me,” Niall says, and he’s sure Zayn can’t hear him over the DJ, but Zayn nods anyway and follows him.

They slip out the back door to the tiny smoking patio, nearly deserted in the biting January cold.

“I don’t have my coat,” Zayn says flatly, rubbing his hands up and down his arms. “Do you even smoke? I quit a few years ago.”

It’s a lot harder to form sentences in the sudden cold and quiet. The music throbs behind them, muffled by the brick. “Uh,” Niall says. “No. But. What did you mean? That we’re different? That you wouldn’t have come up to one of the other lads?”

“Nothing,” Zayn says shortly. “It’s cold, mate, let’s go inside.”

“Because I think we are too,” Niall says in a rush, staring intensely at a flowerpot full of cigarette butts by Zayn’s foot. He feels like his throat may close up. “I’ve had a crush on you like, forever, mate, I thought I was over it then here you are texting me our stupid lyrics and saying shit like we’re different.”

Zayn is quiet for a long moment. He leans back against the wall and Niall hears the thump of his shoulders against the brick.

Niall thinks all the blood is now in his face and it will explode at any moment. “Sorry,” he says suddenly. “I thought– I’m gonna–”

“A crush?” Zayn interjects. Niall looks up. Zayn’s tugging his beanie like he’s not sure what to do with his hands. He’s smiling, that stupid lovely smile that shows all his teeth, and Niall notices the crows’ feet around his squinted eyes are a little more pronounced. “Like a crush crush? Like romance.”

“Jesus,” Niall says, and scrubs his hand over his own dark hair. “Yes, like romance, shall I act it out for you? Didn’t you want to study English?”

“I’m still drunk,” Zayn says. “Are you messing with me? Don’t mess with me on my birthday.”

He’s struck by the sudden urge to kick the flowerpot of cigarette butts over. “I’m– Zayn, I’m not messing with you.”

Zayn’s hand is cold when he touches Niall’s neck, then cups his jawline. “Swear you’re not. Don’t mess with me like this. It’s not fair.”

Niall’s staring at Zayn’s face suddenly and Zayn’s not leaning on the wall anymore, he’s standing close to Niall, and his eyes are shiny, and Niall says, “Go on, then.”

The kiss lovely, gentle, rough with stubble, a burning heat in the freezing January night. Niall’s hands find Zayn’s hips, his waist, feeling the movement of Zayn’s muscles as his breath catches in his lungs. He tastes a little bit like vodka. Niall’s imagined this moment– maybe not in the past few years, when he was sure he was over it, except for when he was very drunk and sad, but he’s imagined it, and it’s much gentler and quieter and better than he ever expected.

When they break, Niall tilts forward and presses their foreheads together. They share breath. Zayn’s eyes are closed and his eyelashes are long and dark against his cheeks. When he opens them, Niall says, “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I missed you. A lot.”

Zayn pulls away just to wrap Niall in a hug, pressing his face to Niall’s hair. “I missed you too. I like your hair.”

“I like you,” Niall says, and Zayn rumbles a laugh that Niall can feel where they’re pressed together. “Happy birthday.”

Niall stays tucked into Zayn’s side the entire cab ride home. Zayn crashes fully clothed on Niall’s couch, and the next morning he wakes up when Niall’s frying bacon for breakfast. Zayn slips into the kitchen smelling of booze and sweat, thinks he’s being sneaky, and sidles up behind Niall. “Smells good,” he says.

Niall turns around. Zayn looks a bit shy. Niall kisses him, briefly, morning breath be damned, the heat and rough stubble is worth it. “Coffee’s ready,” he says, and he means, _love you_ , and when Zayn presses a hand to the small of Niall’s back before he goes to get a mug, Niall thinks that might mean the same.


End file.
